Settling Scores
by Virginiana
Summary: What might happen when an old felon returns to Hastings, bent upon taking revenge upon DCS Foyle? Courage and loyalties will be tested as Milner and Sam try to protect their boss from the murderous rage of an old foe.
1. Chapter 1: The Watcher

_July 1944_

For nearly a fortnight now he had been watching his quarry, unseen. Tucked away behind cars and letter-boxes, mingling unobtrusively with passersby, peering round the curtains of The King's Head across the street from the station. He had observed silently, always careful to avoid detection, the only clue to his intentions the icy malevolence in his small, watery blue eyes.

Staking his prey had been easy enough. Countless times now he'd watched the older man come and go from the station, chauffeured in comfort by a personal driver at a time when petrol rationing had made automobile travel a distant memory for lesser folk. Whenever possible he'd followed him as he went about his business, either by bus or by making use of his brother's battered old bicycle. He'd observed him paying visits to the court house, to the Town Hall, to offices, military posts and wherever else his duties took him. At the weekend he'd shadowed him as he queued at the butcher and the greengrocer, called in at his barber, stopped in for a pint at his local, attended church. Through it all he had watched, observing his haunts and his habits, patiently awaiting his chance.

Rage had been his constant companion through the long hours of surveillance, a cold, implacable hatred which demanded satisfaction. To see this short, balding man striding purposefully about with that quiet air of authority was enough to set his vitals burning. He had always been this way, the watching man remembered. He'd commanded the Hastings police station as though he owned the place, and the inhabitants of that dingy building had bowed and scraped before him as though they believed his exalted rank on the force marked him out as their better.

Such deference was undeserved, as the watching man had learnt only too well. He knew his quarry, the picture of respectability in his trilby and his crisply pressed suits, to be deceitful, disloyal, the worst sort of sneak. Hadn't he paid for the other man's treachery with four years' hellish incarceration in Lewes Prison, enduring filthy conditions, appalling food and back-breaking labour? But now at last he was free – free to carry out one of the schemes he'd fantasised about each night before falling asleep in his dank, smelly cell. One way or another, he would have his revenge on Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle.

But how best to go about it? Not an easy question, after all, as his need for vengeance would not be satisfied with a stealthy blow to the back of his head or quick, anonymous pistol shot. No, he wanted Foyle to _know_ who his attacker was, to be fully aware of the price he was about to pay for his betrayal. At the same time, he had no desire to return to prison. He had to find a way of getting the older man alone, beyond the reach of help, so he could savour his triumph without fear of retribution.

It took him some time to work out the best way to arrange matters. His initial plan had been to break into his home, catching him whilst his guard was down, but a careful examination of the house had given him pause. While Foyle seemed to live alone, with no wife or children to inconvenience him, his doors were nonetheless solid, his locks sound and the close proximity of his Steep Lane neighbours would make breaking in difficult. Next he'd considered ambushing him on one of his frequent journeys, perhaps by hiding in the back seat of his car; but this, too, seemed impractical. For one thing, everywhere he went seemed to be crammed with people, mostly troops headed for action across the Channel. For another, he was invariably accompanied by that little chit in uniform who would no doubt scream her ginger head off at the first sign of trouble. No, there _had_ to be another way.

Inspiration had struck at last near the end of the second week of his vigil. Emboldened by the way his surveillance had gone undetected, he'd been astonished by the ease with which he sneaked into the police station itself. The lone mechanic, a grizzled Welshman well past the usual retirement age, was far too deaf to notice him slipping through the poorly lit garage into the basement. From there it was plain sailing, as he remembered the layout of the building only too well. The basement's back section, which housed several disused cells and a dark, antiquated interview room, had gone largely neglected since the construction of a more modern cellblock in the front two decades before. The two areas were separated by a bolted steel door which, he reckoned, would render the old section nearly soundproof. It suited his purposes exactly. What could be more satisfying than to settle scores within the very walls of the police station itself? Better still, to take his revenge in the very _room_ – the old, abandoned interrogation room – in which the DCS had tricked and betrayed him four years before?

There remained only the problem of how to lure Foyle down there. From the look of things, the back section of the basement had been abandoned since the start of the war. The single tiny window, high in the wall, had been painted black to avoid the bother of doing the blackout; even the scarred wooden table and chairs had been removed. There seemed little chance that he might catch the Chief Super wandering round down there, especially on his own. He needed some sort of bait for the trap he was setting. But what?

He found the answer the next afternoon as he watched Foyle and his driver walking out to the Wolseley. The girl made some remark which caused her superior's eyebrows to shoot up in mild reproof. She responded by flashing him a slightly cheeky grin before tucking herself neatly behind the wheel. Still on the pavement, beyond her vision, Christopher Foyle's face relaxed briefly into a reluctant smile, an expression of fondness that his stalker couldn't miss even through the dirty pub window.

_Aha_, he thought, as the constant hatred burning within him was momentarily suffused by a glow of satisfaction. Slipping a hand inside his jacket, he fingered the sharpness of the hunting knife concealed there. He had found the way at last.


	2. Chapter 2: The Trap

The watching man chose his moment with care. During his long vigil he had grown familiar not only with Foyle's routine but also with the day-to-day schedule of the station. He had been pleased to observe how short-staffed the place was compared with former times; this would make his task easier. Late afternoon, he decided, would be the best time to strike – after six o'clock, when the day shift had gone home and the scanty night patrol had set off on the beat. The DCS seldom ended his workday before seven, but there were few other people about at that hour except for the desk sergeant and the duty officers down in the cellblock, who would be occupied with overseeing the prisoners' evening meal. Very well. He would be ready to bait his trap and, at long last, avenge himself on the man who had destroyed his life.

At a quarter past six on that ordinary July day MTC volunteer Samantha Stewart could be found, as usual, in the station kitchen. Jacket removed and sleeves rolled to the elbow, her foot tapped energetically along with the lively rendition of Tommy Dorsey's "Opus One_"_ emitting from the wireless as she washed up the last of the tea-things. It was one of her favourite tunes, and for once she hadn't been afraid to inch the volume up to a really enjoyable level. Mr Foyle, whose office was just along the corridor, was closeted with Mr Reid in his room upstairs, hashing out a long-delayed decision about which constables they would put forward for promotion. As the kitchen was tucked away in a back corner of the station, there was little chance of disturbing anyone else save Sergeant Milner, whose office was just round the corner. But she wasn't worried about him. Gentle, even-tempered Milner didn't mind a song or two at the end of a long day, and true friend that he was, he never scolded or made a fuss.

Between the music and the water flowing from the tap, Sam never heard a sound. The first inkling she had of something amiss was a pair of strong arms seizing her from behind, one pinning her arms to her sides, the other hand clapped over her mouth to smother her cry of shock. The cup she'd been rinsing smashed to the floor as her assailant jerked her backward out of the room. They covered the few steps from the kitchen to the back stairs in seconds and then he was propelling her down the flight so swiftly that she struggled to keep her footing.

Her first thought was that one of the young cadets or constables must be playing a practical joke on her, but she realised almost at once that she was mistaken. No man in the Hastings police station would dare treat her this way. This had to be someone else, and his rough handling was certainly no joke! Panic surged through her and she began to fight in earnest, throwing her weight this way and that in a desperate effort to break his iron grip. What did he plan to do with her? Robbery? Rape? For God's sake, what kind of madman attacks a woman in the middle of a _police station_?

He was forcing her down the back stairs, the ones that led to the old cellblock. Sam had spent very little time in this part of the building, as it was no longer in use. The war had rendered the area unnecessary, for the handful of remaining policemen required less space than the larger peacetime force. Sam could recall Mr Foyle using the interview room down there once or twice during her first months at the station, but never since. Both he and Milner preferred the brighter and more convenient space on the ground floor.

And now her assailant was dragging her into that very room, his arm so tight round her torso that she was finding it hard to draw breath. She tried to force her mind to observe details about him in a futile effort to guess his identity. He was tall – at least as tall as Milner, she guessed, but stockier. The arms that gripped her were heavily muscled; the chest behind her back felt broad and solid. Beyond that she could tell nothing.

He spun her to face him and pushed her against the wall in the far corner, one hand still hard over her mouth. The room was dark, the only light spilling through the open doorway from the dim bulb in the corridor, so that it was impossible for her to make out his features. The odours of cheap cigarettes and stale beer on his breath were not enough to mask the rancid smell of a body too long unwashed. Her stomach heaved and she struggled anew to break free of him, but it was no use. He was much stronger than she.

"Hold still now," he growled. "Jus' hold still, or else – " and with a quick gesture he dipped a hand inside his jacket and flashed something long and shiny between them. She froze as the blade hovered and danced before her, glinting as it caught the light.

"That's better," he hissed, his voice low and guttural. "Not a sound out of you, now. Scream and it'll be the last thing you ever do. You 'ear me?"

He removed his hand from her face, but terror held her silent and rigidly still. It would be useless to scream anyway, she knew; the walls down here were too thick for sound to penetrate, and the nearest policeman was at least forty feet away behind a heavy metal door. "Lissen," he growled, "It's not you I'm after. You do wha' I tell you and you won't get hurt. Understand?" At her barely perceptible nod he continued, "Right. Now, you just pick up this here phone" - he gestured at instrument on the wall nearby – "and get your bleedin' boss down 'ere. Him and me've got some unfinished business to tend to. You do that, girlie, an' you'll walk away in one piece."

_Oh, dear_ _God_, she thought, fresh horror making her blood run cold_. That's what this is about. Revenge._ She was hardly unaware that there were plenty of dishonest folk about who bore a grudge against the police, but it had never occurred to her that someone might turn up looking to even the score. This man's violent fury, coupled with the flashing blade, were enough to convince her of his murderous intentions. She closed her eyes as the nightmare of her predicament sank in. What on earth was she meant to do?

If she didn't comply, he would almost certainly hurt her, possibly even kill her. But if she summoned Foyle down here he would face an ambush - no warning, no weapon, no chance to defend himself. How could she live with herself, knowing that she had lured him to certain death just to save her own skin? It was unthinkable. "I _can't_," she whispered, the words forcing themselves out almost involuntarily.

Her attacker twisted her shirt roughly with his free hand, tightening it round her neck as he brandished the knife closer. "Why, you little _bitch_. Don't you give me that! You get him down 'ere _now_, or I'll - " she felt him jerk at her tie, followed by the telltale sing of the blade as he sliced the fabric in half. Another yank as he ripped her collar open, then the touch of cold steel against her throat.

She fought the rising tide of panic, her mind spinning desperately for a way out, for some magic phrase that would quell his spiralling rage. "No, I mean … I can't call him," she heard herself gasp hoarsely. "He's … not here." Where had the words come from?

His grip on her shirt slackened a trifle. "What's that?"

She swallowed, wondering what power had taken over for her benumbed brain. "He's - at the dentist. Toothache."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why din't you drive him then?"

"It's just up the street." Again, it was as though some other intelligence was answering in her stead. "I'm to take him home when he gets back." She forced her eyes to meet his steadily, praying he would believe her. Lying, she knew, had never been her strong suit.

Her captor studied her closely, weighing her words. He drew in a deep breath and let it out in an angry hiss. "Right, then" he grunted at last. "So we wait."


	3. Chapter 3: Confrontation

The time that followed had to be the longest forty-five minutes of Sam's life. Her assailant never slackened his grip on her, though he lowered the menacing blade. She squirmed against the cold brick wall, trying to evade his foul breath, struggling to maintain her composure. She knew she couldn't hold this madman at bay for long, but she could think of no way to escape without putting Foyle in danger. She could sense his barely controlled rage, seething just beneath the surface. What would happen when he tired of waiting?

Sure enough, he soon grew restive and pulled her roughly over to the phone. "It's time," he announced. "Must be back by now. Ring up his office if you know what's good for you."

She looked up into his florid face, the pale blue eyes glinting with malevolence. He had turned toward the light, so that she was able to discern his features for the first time. He looked vaguely familiar, but she was unable to place him among the dozens of arrests Foyle had made during her tenure as his driver. And what did it really matter? She couldn't do what he wanted, no matter who he was and no matter the cost to herself. She just couldn't. "No," she said clearly, bracing herself for his wrath. "I won't."

Detective Sergeant Paul Milner was searching through the records of the Household Register kept behind the station's main desk, following up on a lead in a black-market ring he was investigating, when the telephone rang. Concentrating on the logbook before him, he only half-listened to the duty sergeant's side of the conversation.

"Hastings Police … No, I'm sorry, he isn't available … I really couldn't say, sir. Would you like to leave a message? … I see … Where was that? You sure? … And your name? ... Hello? ... Hello? …" He replaced the receiver with a puzzled grunt. "Hmm. Bit odd, that."

"What's odd, Brooke?" Milner asked absently.

"That call. Message for Mr Foyle."

"Who was it?"

"He didn't say. Just said to tell him that he'd left something behind in the old interview room downstairs."

The detective sergeant looked up, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead. "What?"

"He said, 'Tell Foyle he can find what he's looking for in the old interview room in the basement'."

"Are you sure? We haven't used that in years. Don't think anyone's even been down there for ages."

"I know." Brooke shrugged, beginning to jot the message down on a scrap of paper.

"Don't bother," Milner told him, closing the Household Registry log and returning it to the shelf. "I'll see what it is."

He descended the stairs as swiftly as his prosthetic limb would allow. His curiosity had been piqued by the odd telephone call, and he was always happy to spare Mr Foyle the bother of any mundane task. Whatever had been left in this unlikely place, he could doubtless see to it without troubling his superior.

Sam's heart sank at the sound of approaching footsteps echoing a little in the silent corridor. She would know that gait anywhere, the slightly uneven step of a man with an aluminium leg. _No, no, __**no,**_ she thought frantically, trying one last time to twist free of his iron grasp, and was rewarded by his grubby hand clamping over her mouth again. _Not Milner! _She whimpered as her captor pushed her forward into the middle of the room, the blade once again hovering inches from her throat.

Milner stopped short in the doorway, every muscle in his body tensing at the scene that met his eyes. Sam, clothing askew, eyes huge with terror, trapped in the grip of a burly lout. _The knife. _The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. "Let her go!" he barked in his most commanding tone, drawing himself up to his full height, his hands balling into fists.

The other man ignored his words. "What you doin' here?" he growled, dropping his hand from the girl's face to imprison her arms again. "Where's Foyle?"

Milner took in the words Sam was mouthing silently -_not here! - _and in a flash he comprehended both her ruse and the desperate reasoning behind it. "He's not here," he shot back without missing a beat, his voice as hard as iron. "You take your filthy hands off her. _Now_." He took a threatening step forward, but halted abruptly as Sam's assailant brandished the knife closer.

"Not till I see Foyle. He's the one I'm after. Got a score to settle wiv' him. You best find him and get him down here right quick, 'less you want me to start usin' this on her pretty neck. You hear me?"

Milner's heart was pounding, his dark eyes blazing with a righteous anger the girl had never before witnessed. A single idea was spinning in his brain: _get Sam away from that knife!_ But how? He longed to fling himself at this coward, to pound him with his fists, beat his face into a bloody pulp, but he didn't dare move any closer.

Should he send for Foyle – who _was_ in the building, despite the girl's lie – to secure her release from this animal, this bit of _filth_? Like Sam, he realised at once that this was simply out of the question. It was more than just colluding in the assault of a fellow police officer that repelled him; there was his personal debt of loyalty to the older man as well. Foyle had taken him back on the force when no other detective would have given him a chance, restoring his career and his confidence, and had nurtured him through the long process of recovery with sensitivity and consideration. He had even forgiven his blunder over the Guy Spencer debacle. How could he sacrifice the man to whom he owed so much to this lunatic, whoever he was?

Milner stared into the florid face, the small, piggy eyes, the hulking form and recognition clicked somewhere far back in his memory. Could it be … ? He was older, thinner, worn down by prison and hard labour, but the face was the same. He was almost sure of it.

"It's Ferris, isn't it?" he asked. "Arrested for assaulting a conscientious objector in custody. When was it, four years ago? Five?" The coarse features hardened and he knew he'd guessed right. "So they finally let you out and you decided to get a bit of your own back?"

"Too bloody right I did," Ferris snarled. "_Four years_ he gets me in that stinking hellhole while my little brother is bleeding and dying out in Egypt. While my wife is carrying on with any bloke what takes her fancy, putting her in the club. And for _what_? Bit of rough stuff with a lousy conshie, that's all! We didn't even hurt the bleedin' coward! And that filthy lying sod Foyle tricked me into admitting it! 'Not that it's any great loss,' he says, and then he bloody turns round and arrests me!" His voice was savage. "I been waitin' four years to teach that bastard a lesson he won't soon forget. You try and stop me and this tart gets it first!" He jerked viciously at Sam's shirt, popping off another button and exposing the lacy edge of her slip. She cried out involuntarily as the knife point touched the pale flesh just above her heart, her eyes meeting Milner's pleadingly.

"_Stop !"_ Milner burst out, unable to bear any more. A desperate plan was taking shape in his mind, a way out of this impossible choice that he prayed might spare both Sam and Foyle. The only option his conscience would permit was to try to deflect the former lag's rage upon himself. "If it's revenge you're after, Ferris, you can have it on me. _I_ was the one who fingered you to Mr Foyle. Don't you remember?"

Ferris stared at him for a long moment. Milner could almost see the cogs of his brain turning slowly as he cast his mind back. Did he recall that offhand exchange with a detective sergeant on crutches – had he still been using crutches then? – in which he had implicated himself? The seconds passed as Ferris pondered, weighing his options. Then, with a lightning-fast gesture, he shoved Sam violently to one side and lunged at Milner, knife outstretched, going for the kill.


	4. Chapter 4: The Struggle

Sam threw her arms up in an effort to shield herself from careening headfirst into the rough brick wall, but her forehead struck hard all the same. The impact drove her to her knees, but she quickly recovered enough to scramble unsteadily to her feet.

She spun round to find the two men engaged in a deadly struggle, both Milner's hands locked round Ferris' thick wrist, trying to wrestle the knife away. "Get _out_ of here, Sam!" Milner grunted through gritted teeth. Conditioned to obey, she ducked round the struggling pair and staggered out into the corridor, trying to ignore her throbbing skull, intent only on seeking help.

As he and Ferris grappled over the weapon, Milner realised that the odds in this fight were stacked against him. Though the two men were roughly matched in height and reach, his opponent outweighed him by several stone. His own litheness and quick reflexes were of little help when set against the convict's superior muscle, honed during his years at hard labour. Then, of course, there were the disadvantages posed by his prosthetic leg, which cost him both in balance and in kicking power. But his worst handicap by far was the injury he'd sustained from Ferris' first wild lunge.

The knife had been aimed directly at his heart. Though Milner had instinctively dodged the thrust, he hadn't moved quite fast enough. The blade had slashed deep into his upper arm, quite close to the spot where a bullet had grazed him a few years before. He tried to block out the pain, but the warm gush soaking his sleeve warned him that the loss of blood would quickly sap his strength.

He redoubled his efforts to force the weapon from Ferris' grip, desperately trying to deflect the point from own body. The convict battled back, relentlessly using every advantage of strength and weight in his attempt to drive the knife home, pounding his free fist repeatedly into Milner's stomach. The detective grunted under the barrage of blows and tried to snap a knee into the other man's groin, knowing he was fighting for his life.

Sam, meanwhile, had flown up the corridor toward the cellblock where she knew she would find several officers on duty. She wrenched frantically at the door handle but found it securely bolted. With a scream she flung herself against the cold steel, beating frantically and shouting for help.

In seconds there was an answering yell followed by pounding footsteps. Satisfied that help was on its way, she turned round and shot back down the passage. Milner, she knew, was unarmed, and she didn't know how long he'd be able to hold this madman at bay. She peered cautiously round the door jamb, heart pounding like a kettledrum, praying that she wouldn't find her friend sprawled on the floor with the hilt of the knife sticking out.

What she saw wasn't _that_ bad, but it was bad enough. Though still on his feet and fighting, Milner was clearly faring the worse in their desperate struggle. Ferris shoved him this way and that, trying to shake loose the detective's grip on his arm so he could finish him off with the knife. More frightening still was his shirt, heavily soaked with blood. It was obvious to Sam that he couldn't last much longer.

She wanted more than anything to come to his aid, but _how_? Ferris would swat her away like a fly. A _weapon_, that was what she needed! Something large and heavy, like a lamp or a chair, that she could wield with at least enough force to divert his attention until help arrived. Frantically she looked this way and that, but there seemed to be nothing, _nothing _useful in this long-abandoned place. Virtually the only portable items in view were a trio of red fire buckets hanging on hooks a short distance away.

It was ridiculous, she knew, but what else could she do? She snatched one up and ducked back into the fray. Ferris' back was to her, fortunately, so she swung the pail as hard as she could at the back of his head, knowing as she did so that the gesture was useless. The bucket was made of _aluminium_, for heaven's sake. She might as well bash him over the head with a rolled-up newspaper.

Sure enough, though the pail echoed with a hollow _clang_ against his skull, the blow didn't so much as make him flinch. Sam groaned in despair. Then, in an idea born of sheer desperation, she jammed the pail down over his head, using both hands to hold it in place.

Mad though it seemed, the trick worked! Blinded and disoriented, the assailant's grip on the knife slackened. Milner seized his chance to wrench it loose. The weapon clattered to the floor and with a swift kick he sent it skittering into a darkened corner, safely out of sight.

Ferris let out a roar like an angry bull and tossed his head this way and that, trying to free it from the stifling darkness. Encountering resistance from Sam's determined grip, he jerked an arm back in a powerful blow designed to throw off his unseen attacker. It was more than enough to fling her off; she reeled back and crashed to the floor.

One glimpse of her motionless form was enough to energise Milner with a fresh surge of fury. He flung himself at Ferris as he freed his head, battering his face and body with the hardest punches he could muster. Then, before the other man could recover from the flurry of blows, his right leg flashed out and swept his legs out from under him. It was a manoeuvre he'd learned in police training more than a decade ago and, he noted with grim satisfaction, it worked just as well now as it had done then. He seized the convict's arm and twisted it up behind him, planting a knee in the small of his back and leaning with all his weight to hold him down.

His own reserves were nearly exhausted, but there still seemed to be a great deal of fight left in Ferris. He twisted and thrashed, trying to wrench his arm free and buck the detective off his back. Milner became aware of the pains riddling his body, the legacy of every punch he'd taken, and the agonising burning in his left arm. It took the last of his remaining strength to hold the larger man down until help arrived.

Mercifully, it didn't take long. He heard a startled _"oi!"_ and the room was suddenly full of black uniforms. "Bloody hell! S'all right, Sarge, we got him!" said a voice as hands tried to pull him off. He couldn't hold back a sharp cry when someone grabbed his left arm. He sank back on the cold tile floor, drained, the red haze of pain before his eyes obscuring the sight of Ferris being cuffed and dragged away.

The next thing he knew a gentle hand was touching his face. He blinked to bring the figure kneeling beside him into focus; it was Sam, her copper hair in wild disarray, her face streaked with tears. "Sam," he groaned. "Are you all right?"

"Hush," she interrupted, her voice quavering. "I'm tickety-boo. But _you're_ not. Lie still." He felt her hands gently tearing his blood-soaked sleeve and easing the fabric away from the gash, then pressing something against it in an effort to staunch the flow. Despite her care he sucked in his breath sharply as the fresh stab of pain surged through him like liquid fire. "Sorry," she murmured, sounding choked. "Got to stop this bleeding ... "

He reached out with his good arm and fumbled for her fingers but couldn't find them. "Sam, for God's sake, _why_ did you come back? I thought you were _safe_ \- "

She looked startled at the reproof in his voice. "I _had_ to," she replied simply, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world. "He was going to – I mean, I couldn't just let him - " she broke off, her eyes filling with fresh tears.

Before he could reply, they were interrupted by the arrival of the medical officer, who brushed her aside and took charge of the situation with cool-headed professionalism. In less than three minutes he'd applied a proper bandage and a tourniquet and organised two constables to help Milner onto a makeshift stretcher. An ashen-faced Sam followed as they carried him carefully upstairs to meet the ambulance which was already on its way to speed him to hospital.


	5. Chapter 5: Aftermath

Christopher Foyle walked slowly along the seafront, hands thrust deep into his coat pockets, gazing out at the moonlit Channel. It was close to midnight, an hour which usually found him in bed, but sleep was impossible tonight. He drew in deep breaths of salt-tinged air and listened to the gentle wash of waves on the beach below, but the susurrating rhythm, usually so soothing, was not sufficient to restore his tranquillity on this occasion.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd indulged in a late-night walk near the sea. He had fallen into the habit after Rosalind's death, when grief and loneliness had left him unfit for easy slumber, but the war and the blackout had made it impractical. On this July evening, however, the sky was bright with stars and the luminous glow of the nearly-full moon provided adequate light for safe walking.

The first inkling he'd had of trouble was when the meeting in Hugh's office was interrupted by distant shouts. Hurrying downstairs, they had reached the lobby just in time to see a bloody figure being borne out the front doors on a stretcher. His shock upon recognising his sergeant had left him momentarily speechless. Ignoring the commotion and the approaching wail of a siren, he'd pushed his way past the officers to Milner's side. The younger man was conscious, he saw, but covered in blood and deathly pale. "What happened?" he had demanded, his heart pounding.

"It was fair -" Milner gasped weakly, his voice faltering. "He had Sam, sir. A knife. Down- downstairs. Had to get him away from - " the rest of his words were drowned out by the ambulance pulling up in front of the station. Foyle stepped back and nodded to the constables to load their burden into the vehicle, and stood watching while the M.O. joined his sergeant in back and slammed the door.

Once the ambulance had pulled away, he'd turned back to the building and saw Sam leaning against the wall by the door, tears running silently down her face. She, too, was bloodstained, her uniform torn and her hair badly rumpled and slipping from its Victory roll. When their eyes met she made an obvious effort to collect herself, straightening and wiping her cheek with the back of a shaking hand, but the gesture left a bloody smear in its wake. "You hurt?" he asked her, indicating the stains on her hands and clothing.

"No, sir, it's …" she gestured after the retreating ambulance to indicate the source of the blood, her voice shaking. "Will – will he be all right?" He had no answer for her.

It was clear she was teetering on the edge of a breakdown but there were things he needed to know first, so he got her down the passage to his office straightaway, sending Brooke to fetch a glass into which he poured a generous two inches of his hoarded single-malt scotch. He wanted to pace but, mindful of the need to present a calm façade, he forced himself to take his usual place behind his desk. He managed to wait until she'd got a few sips down before beginning. "Tell me," he said. "You were attacked? By whom?"

A shake of the head. "I - don't know, sir. I'm sorry. He looked a bit familiar, but …it was dark down there. I never got a good look at him."

"He had a knife?" She nodded, gesturing mutely toward her torn shirt and cut necktie. "And this happened downstairs. Where?"

"The old interview room."

That brought him to his feet. "What were you doing down there?" he demanded, anxiety making his voice sharper than he intended. "For God's sake, you know better than to be wandering round down there by yourself!"

The rebuke was enough to shatter her fragile composure. "But I _wasn't_!" she cried, fresh tears welling up. "I was in the kitchen, doing the washing-up. He – he grabbed me from behind and dragged me down there before I even knew what was hap – " she trailed off into sobs, slumping forward on his desk and burying her face in her arms.

Foyle looked down at the tousled red-gold curls and the shaking shoulders and chewed his lip, stomach churning with fear and guilt. _God almighty, anything could have happened to her down there,_ he thought. _What could have possessed her attacker, whoever he was, to assault her in a building full of police officers, of all places? And why go after Sam?_

A horrifying possibility occurred to him. He rose and moved quietly round the desk to stand next to her, patting her shoulder gently and murmuring vague words of apology and comfort. He felt rather awkward; as paternally fond as he was of his driver, this sort of thing had never come naturally to him. _Milner would be better at it_, he thought wryly, then felt a fresh pang when he remembered his sergeant's injured state. After a minute or two she raised her head and he offered his handkerchief. She mopped at her face. "I'm sorry, sir."

He didn't reply, merely gave her a few more moments to collect herself before asking, "You sure you're all right? He didn't hurt you?"

"No, sir. Banged my head a bit is all. I'll be fine."

His frown deepened. "Mmm," he grunted. She would need to be seen by a doctor, and soon, but he had a few more questions first. "Did he say anything? Any idea what it was about?"

She dropped her eyes in consternation. "Well, yes. He wanted … you."

He felt the blood in his veins congeal into ice. It was exactly what he'd feared - someone nursing a grudge against _him_ had vented his anger on Sam. And on Milner too. "What did he say?" he asked tightly.

"A lot of things. He blamed you for sending him to prison. His brother was killed in the war, his wife left him. And he said something about a conscientious objector – it didn't make a great deal of sense to me. I think Milner understood, though. He recognised him."

Foyle's usually erect posture had gone ramrod straight. "Did he get away?"

"No, I don't think so. The duty officers got him."

He nodded grimly, his jaw tightening. The details of her story could wait; just now he needed to confirm the suspicion taking hold in his mind. "Wait here," he told her, starting for the door.

Down in the cellblock, noise and confusion reigned. Officers hurried this way and that, talking excitedly, while the few prisoners currently in custody added to the din by shouting. Foyle glimpsed Hugh Reid, chief superintendent in charge of the uniformed side of the force, trying to restore order. Ignoring the chaos, he strode directly to the cells, glancing at the occupant of each until he found the one he sought.

It was as he'd suspected. William Ferris, onetime sergeant of the Hastings Constabulary, without a doubt. He was older and rougher-looking than Foyle remembered, but there was no mistaking those pale eyes, those florid features. Milner, he realised, had even tried to tell him so. "It was _fair_," he had said, clearly trying to say _Ferris_.

The ex-police officer's face was unshaven, his hair overlong and greasy, his shirt and trousers torn and faded. His unkempt appearance was a far cry from the spit-and-polish of the uniform he'd once worn with such pride. He slumped motionless on the hard cell bed, his lip bleeding and one eye nearly swollen shut – Milner' s handiwork, Foyle guessed. Slowly he raised his gaze to the DCS and his expression shifted from blank despair to virulent hatred. The pale blue eyes burned with a rage as powerful and malevolent as any the detective had ever seen, but Foyle did not flinch. He met the stare with his own steely gaze, silently conveying both implacable contempt and deepest disgust. When Ferris opened his mouth to speak, he turned his back deliberately and walked away. There was nothing this piece of human waste could say that he wanted to hear and he had no intention of giving the lout the satisfaction of listening to even one minute of his vitriol. Hugh Reid, who had come to stand behind his friend, silenced his former subordinate with a single chilling remark. "You know you'll hang for this, Ferris."

Foyle had gone next to the neglected little room in the station's basement. He couldn't have said exactly why he felt compelled to visit this place just now, but his detective's instincts always demanded a firsthand view of the scene of a crime. There was little enough to see other than a hunting knife and a dented fire bucket on the floor, but the bloodstained tiles bore eloquent testimony to the violent struggle that had taken place here. Looking round the dingy walls, poorly illuminated by a low-wattage bulb, he understood why Ferris had chosen this spot to take his revenge: their fateful interview, all those years ago, had been conducted in this very room. But even this realisation offered no answer to the enigma at the forefront of his mind: _why_, if Ferris had been determined to avenge himself on Foyle, had he assaulted his sergeant and his driver instead?

He picked up the knife and fingered the blade, wincing at its sharpness and feeling a fresh surge of anxiety over Milner. Pray God he hadn't suffered any lasting harm; that young man had been through quite enough as it was. He'd best get over to the hospital to check on him; he would take Sam along and have her seen to at the same time.

And now, hours later, he was walking along the promenade feeling the soft breeze against his face, savouring the stillness of the summer night. Somewhere across the water, far out of sight in the velvety darkness, lay France. Over there were battalions of tanks and heavy artillery, regiments of infantry armed with rifles and grenades battling fiercely across fields and hedgerows. And aeroplanes too, of course. Somewhere on the other side of that dark Channel was Andrew, a tiny speck of life in a sea of combat, flying and fighting and dodging hostile fire and antiaircraft volleys determined to send him to a fiery death. Andrew, his son. His only family.

During the past six weeks, since the start of the great Allied invasion of France, worry about Andrew's safety had followed him about like an ever-present ghost, silently weighing down his spirit. Not a day passed that he didn't fear the arrival of a telegram bearing the news he most dreaded, and his nights were regularly disrupted by terrifyingly vivid dreams. And always, always at the back of his mind was the unbearable knowledge that if he were to lose Andrew, he would be left entirely alone.

But this evening's events had temporarily driven such fears from his mind. As Sergeant Brooke drove them to hospital, he had listened with mounting incredulity to the details of Sam's story. When she explained her refusal to comply with Ferris' demand that she summon the DCS, he had been unable to contain his reaction. "What were you _thinking_, Sam? You could have got yourself killed!" he'd burst out, outraged. "You had no business taking such a risk. Why didn't you ring me upstairs? You knew where I was."

"Oh, I – I _couldn't_ have done that, sir," she'd responded firmly. "He was so angry, so set on getting his own back at you, I'm sure he would have – well -" she trailed off, looking too stricken to finish, but her meaning was clear enough.

He had stared at the young woman who, though still rumpled and tearstained, was meeting his appalled gaze with that queer mixture of earnestness and stubbornness that characterised her. He could manage no more than a choked, "For God's sake, really!" before their arrival at St. Luke's forced him to table the discussion.

Milner's words to him, a few minutes later, had been nearly identical. He'd found his sergeant lying shirtless on an examining table as the doctor wrapped a bandage round the ugly stitches on his bicep. In addition to the three-inch gash, the younger man's chest and torso were covered liberally with darkening bruises, but he had recovered sufficiently to give a full account of the incident. Foyle had again listened with growing astonishment. Once he'd grasped the most significant point – that Milner had deliberately deflected Ferris' wrath upon himself to spare Foyle – he had again been rendered momentarily speechless. "You should have sent for me," he'd told the younger man tightly, his voice betraying his tumultuous emotions. "Nothing to do with you."

Milner had merely smiled faintly, his handsome face white and drawn with pain, and replied with that gentle, self-effacing manner Foyle had come to expect of him. "Couldn't do that, sir," he'd replied simply.

Foyle halted by a stone pillar on the promenade and gazed out at the shining path the moonlight made on the water, rippling gently with the current. He was greatly disturbed, of course, by what had happened that evening. It wasn't so much the danger to himself that upset him; every police officer lived with the knowledge that he could fall victim to some vengeful felon, and he had sent more men to prison than most. No, it was the price paid by his innocent colleagues that distressed him so deeply.

For both of them, it had transpired, had been injured in the struggle. Sam had suffered a mild concussion and had been sent home to her digs with strict orders to rest for several days. Milner had been kept in hospital overnight for observation, as the doctor was concerned about the amount of blood he'd lost. Both were expected to make a full recovery, but this was of little comfort to Foyle, who was only too aware that the incident could have ended very differently.

Their courage and selflessness moved him deeply. Both these young people – still in their twenties, with their whole lives ahead of them – had risked serious injury or death in order to protect him. Each had also tried to shield the other from harm. In Milner's case, at least, there was a certain expectation of professional police conduct when faced with a dangerous criminal, but his actions had surely gone far beyond the call of duty. And as for Sam – well, dealing with armed felons was certainly not part of her brief as an MTC volunteer. He had tried to find the words to thank them, but both had brushed aside his inadequate efforts.

He recalled a long-ago conversation with Milner, one which had taken place in the wake of his sergeant's early misjudgement of the fascist Guy Spencer. He had stressed the importance of the three of them operating as a team, able to rely upon each other completely. Little had he suspected how powerful that trust would become. He was awed and humbled by the loyalty both Milner and Sam had shown him today.

It wasn't, he reflected, as though he had never experienced such a bond with his comrades before – he had, as a young soldier in the trenches of France more than a quarter of a century ago. He and his fellow 'Tommies' regularly risked their lives for each other. But he hadn't quite realised that he could find the same degree of _esprit de corps_ within the humble walls of the Hastings police station.

He couldn't deny, of course, that the three of them had been forced to work exceptionally closely together over the past few years. With manpower in the police force shorter than ever, they'd had to depend upon each other. But that intimacy had gradually extended far beyond their jobs. Both Sam and Milner had become like family to him – as close as Andrew in their way, as he had spent little time with his son since he had gone on active service. He felt a rush of affection for them both – for Milner, quiet and self-contained, but displaying every quality he would need to succeed as a detective: intelligence, intuition, determination, persistence. And for Sam, ever cheerful, inquisitive, lively, outspoken, a bright light in his daily routine, like the daughter he'd never had. He had taken their role in his life for granted, but he knew now that he had come to feel for both of them the same fierce paternal love he felt for his own son.

After a long while, Foyle pushed his hat back on his head and moved on, turning his back on the whispering sea. As he headed toward Steep Lane, carrying with him the comforting knowledge that he wasn't quite as alone in the world as he'd thought.

_Finis_


End file.
